Sentimentality: A Case Study
by Dhampir72
Summary: It's less about the chair and more about who used to sit in it. [2014 Winterlock Exchange]


A gift for idontactuallylikethissite on Tumblr as a late gift in the winterlock exchange.

**pqpq**

He moves the chair on a Thursday.

Not everyone has to be a consulting detective to see the obvious, which is that John's chair is gone and there is nothing in its place except the worn grooves in the carpet. Sherlock sits in his own chair across from the now-empty space and looks hard at the spot where it once sat, his gaze accusing even though he is the one responsible for it and no one else. He thinks that it will be easier this way because of what the future holds, because having the chair there is too much of a distraction (a vestige of a time when it had been him and John and The Work and the nights dashing across rooftops followed by containers of takeaway in front of the fire and it was _good_) and maybe too much of a painful reminder as well. It's selfish, Sherlock knows, because John had never moved his chair, even after, even when he could have, even when it was like Baker Street was suffocating him, like it is suffocating Sherlock now.

But John didn't. He kept both chairs in their respective places.

Then _he_ left.

Sherlock can't blame John, just like he can't blame John for punching him in the face upon his return, just like he can't blame John for seeming so very sad and _lost_ when he thinks Sherlock is not looking (even though Sherlock is always looking at John, always has been looking at John and no one else), just like he can't blame John for moving on and choosing _her_ (and she's perfect for John, really, and that's what makes it all the more terrible), just because it's _John_ and he _can't_.

So Sherlock moves the chair because he has to, even though no one will understand, because a chair is just a chair to everyone else, but to Sherlock it's less about the chair itself and more about who used to sit in it. And the thought of anyone else sitting in it besides John is unbearable.

(_Sentiment_? Sentiment.)

Mrs. Hudson sees it first and makes a comment when she brings up his tea (and for the case study notes, he didn't think that a cuppa just appeared every morning out of thin air; he's smarter than that, but two years is two years too long and Sherlock can't help but feel regret when he spends the early morning hours wishing, wishing, _wishing_ that it is John prepping the kettle, like he always used to) and sort of looks at him with this sad, doe-eyed kind of expression that would have sent him shooting holes in the walls before. But now he just makes an offhand comment about the fascinating nature of his mould growth accumulation project (which is in the fridge, yes, but in the plastic containers that John specifically had written _**science**_ on so not to mix them up with the ones for their food, Sherlock remembered, even if two years is two years too long) and Mrs. Hudson extracts herself like she has somewhere better to be even if she does not.

Mycroft notes it next and his voice is soft and brimming with something like disappointment. He might as well be shouting it, because Sherlock hears it (_sentiment, sentiment, sentiment_) clearly as he idly plucks at the strings of his violin and stares at the discoloured place on the rug. Mycroft taps the spot with his umbrella to get Sherlock's attention; the action is like prodding a wound and it makes Sherlock want to scream. But he drags his bow across the bridge and plays over Mycroft's words, because he thinks that maybe he can fill the emptiness with sound (even though he's tried over and over and over again and despite this, he can still hear John reading aloud from the paper and trudging up the stairs with groceries and pacing in the middle of the night when the nightmares sometimes woke him) but there's only that crushing silence long after Mycroft's gone and shut the door.

When Lestrade comes round, he looks but doesn't say a word, and maybe that is the best (or the worst) thing to happen, Sherlock is not entirely sure.

(Either way, Sherlock's hurting in ways he hasn't hurt in a long time, and there's only one solution for that.)

He's still working and not running away, he tells himself. He knows what he has to do and who he has to use and what to focus on, but it doesn't make it any easier. The drugs are easy, though. They always have been. But now there's no John to tell him it's a _bit not good_ or to look at him with that hard gaze and tell him, in a soldier's voice, to _stop_. And Sherlock does want to stop all of this before it begins, wants to stop hating himself, but he knows deep down that he can't. He can't stop hating himself because (_sentiment_? sentiment) John's chair is gone, because John is married, because John has Mary, because John has a baby on the way, because John is _happy_ (with someone else who isn't him) and Sherlock is no longer the one responsible for that. It has to be sentiment (because what else could hurt so much and offer no reprieve?) that makes him feel like falling apart, because he wants John to be happy, of course he does, Sherlock wants nothing more than for John to be happy because John is his one _true _friend in the entire world.

(But Sherlock wants John to be happy _because_ of him, like he used to.)

But John is not here.

John is gone.

Sherlock closes his eyes thinking about the chair and when he wakes, he's in a place that he vaguely recognises by smell alone. There is residual heaviness in his blood, familiar even after going so long without, but even more familiar is the voice that woke him (the one that wakes him out of sleep at night just by saying his name, laughing, murmuring nonsensical words until they flow together like music) and Sherlock feels something stupidly sentimental, _hopeful_ blossom in his chest believing that John had come for him.

(Finally.)

But sentiment has clouded his understanding and the drugs are not enough to dull the acidity of John's disapproval and the heat of his disappointment. The only softness to John is the ripple of concern beneath his words that Sherlock clings to like a blanket and suddenly he feels like he's a child again. It makes him want to disappear or fly away or do anything but go back to the flat where the space is empty and the carpet is the wrong colour and it's all because John is gone and Sherlock made him leave.

(_I just wanted to protect you_, he wants to say, but John has the angry line between his brows and it's not a good time, it's never a good time now, and besides, Sherlock has too many things to fake and throwing truth in all of that will just ruin everything.)

Eventually they go back to the flat and Sherlock can't breathe because he knows that John will notice immediately. (He does, Sherlock knew it, _knew it, knew it_ and taking in air is harder than rehab, than dying, than coming back and being forgotten.) The sadness is palpable, sharp and knifelike (but just for a half-second, so quick that no one would see it if they hadn't been looking, but Sherlock is always looking, _always_) so that Sherlock feels it like a shard of glass wedged under his ribcage. He wants to explain, but he can't, because words will never be able to convey everything that he wishes he could say. So Sherlock makes an offhand comment about it, claims he likes the better view of the kitchen, and tries desperately not to notice how much John is trying not to look like he's hurt.

(Because all that Sherlock does is hurt John, again and again and again and he can't _stop_ because that's the sort of person he is.)

Everything has changed, except for the indisputable fact that Sherlock is selfish, truly selfish despite his best intentions to be anything _but_, and he wishes that John could see that like he used to and forgive him. But those days of grace are over, like the day John came into his arms for the first (and last?) time. He remembers it with the utmost clarity, because they fit together like Sherlock always knew they would. It was here in this room when both of their chairs remained and the London afternoon outside the window was trying for summer. Despite the gloom, John's hair was as gold and bright as the sun. But when they stepped closer, he noticed that John had gotten greyer, an indicator of grief, perhaps, and it should have made Sherlock feel guilty, but instead he felt _loved_. It was all kinds of wrong and more than a bit _not good_ because Sherlock should not have felt happy that John grieved him, but he did. John loved him enough to grieve him and turn grey in the places he had not been before, and his eyes were lined with it too, and the planes of his body were softer with it, and Sherlock hated himself for doing it to John (John who was his one and only friend, John who did not _deserve it_) but he loved that John could love him so much that it would physically show.

They danced awkwardly at first, because John was embarrassed and not looking at him and Sherlock was trying not to let what he felt show in his expression. But they always had a rhythm, and they picked it up in no time, like they were dancing through heartbeats. (And maybe they were, because Sherlock's heart was near bursting, and he hoped it wasn't showing through his eyes, because _sentiment _was such a hateful and wretched thing.) They had not been so close in so long and it was in that moment that Sherlock wanted to tell him everything, but he couldn't, and wanted to kiss him, but he couldn't, and wanted to say that he loved him, but he couldn't.

(And even if he could, _what then_?)

So Sherlock did nothing, said nothing, just danced with John until he had the steps mastered and felt prepared enough to dance at his wedding, to dance with someone else, to move onto a life with without Sherlock. And because of that, Sherlock did not want to let him go, but he did because, if anything, John Watson deserved to be happy. He deserved it more than anyone. And so Sherlock let him go and tried not to think about the warmth that lingered on his fingertips long after.

(He played scores and scores and scores to fill the void.)

(Sentiment, sentiment.)

Now, he rubs at the healing bullet wound in his side and looks at the place where the chair used to be and knows that this is what it was like for John. Two years of it, at least. And if anyone deserves to feel this kind of pain, it's Sherlock.

So he puts it back.

It's just a piece of furniture and it should not mean anything (morning tea, afternoon client interviews, evening crap telly) even though it does, so very much. The arms are worn from the brush of John's sleeves and the cushion is soft on the side where he would rest his leg and there's an acid stain (Sherlock's fault) on the side facing the hearth and sometimes Sherlock thinks it smells like him (bergamot, aftershave, mint), even though it's scientifically impossible. It's John's place in the flat, in his life, even if that life is no longer John's (no longer theirs) anymore.

When he's alone, he sits in it and looks at his chair across the way, but instead of thinking about _her_ and what the revelation of her betrayal means, he thinks about John.

He wonders what John used to see in him.

(_Don't make people into heroes. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._)

He wonders if John will ever see that again.

(_Keep your eyes fixed on me._)

He breathes in-

(_I'm a fake_.)

-and out-

(_Sentiment_.)

And just when it's about to crush him entirely, John's footsteps are on the stairs. Sherlock hears him juggling the shopping, the jingle of his keys, and it's wrong because he shouldn't be happy after all that's happened, because John is hurt and John still wears his wedding ring (even though, even though) and John did not deserve it.

But Sherlock's happier than he can say, than he can ever truly show, because the chair is back.

And John is home.


End file.
